


Minutiae (and Mycroft)

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the bonfire Mycroft and John have a necessary conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutiae (and Mycroft)

When he’s on a case, Sherlock takes his tea with two sugars. It’s likely to compensate for the lack of food and sleep.

He likes chips: the dodgy kind that come from takeaways in flimsy styrofoam containers wrapped in paper. I’ve seen him take a half hour detour to go this particular fish shop in Marylebone. He says it’s because they give him extra portions, but he usually winds up eating at least half my portion of chips as well as his own.

The purple shirt is his favourite. He’d deny it, of course, but you should have seen how he tore into the cleaners when they misplaced it. 

His favourite side from the Royal China on Baker Street is the garlic broccoli, and he can always be tempted by the crispy duck, even when he claims he’d not going to eat anything

It was strange, John thought, the things you remembered about people. The little catalogues of minutiae you build around people you care about. When Sherlock was gone they kept bubbling up when he least expected it. Shopping in the Tesco Express and stumbling across the particular brand of toothpaste Sherlock always insisted on could make him falter. When he walked through John Lewis and a salesman handed him a sample of Sherlock’s shampoo it left him breathless. Almost worse, however, was the day he found himself in a shop and couldn’t remember which scotch Sherlock preferred. He’d used to know, that much he remembered. He almost cried again that day, even though it had been almost two years since Sherlock fell.

John wove his way through the shop, basket banging against his knee. He found the tea he liked, and the biscuits Sherlock liked, then dropped in a punnet of cherries. He remembered once, before the fall, he’d come home to find Sherlock at the microscope with a dish of cherries at his elbow. The detective had been absently eating them, fingertips stained red. The fact that he’d gone to the effort of purchasing them somewhere, and not for an experiment, was enough of a hint for John to know they must be a favourite. 

Mycroft was waiting for him outside the front door like an uninvited guest at a funeral. The expensive suit was so out of place on the pavement that even the dogs tied to the railings gave the elder Holmes a wide berth. The plastic bag swung into the back of John’s leg as he spotted Mycroft and paused, then straightened and approached the other man.

“Good morning, John.”

“Morning, Mycroft.” There wasn’t a black car in sight, but John wasn’t under any illusions that the other man had walked. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Mycroft gave a tight smile, as if some reason occurred to him that was particularly entertaining. Instead he pointed down the road with his umbrella. “I thought we could take a short walk, unless your...” he paused, and looked dubiously at John’s bag, “shopping is particularly perishable.”

Had Mycroft ever shopped for groceries before? Surely he’d been a student at some point, where had he said? Oxford, John remembered. Did students at Oxford buy their own food? Perhaps not. “It’ll be fine.” They set off down the road towards Regent’s Park, when Mycroft didn’t seem inclined to speak, John said, “I didn’t think you did walks.” It was an echo of a conversation outside of Speedy’s.

Mycroft obviously remembered as well, as one side of his lip curled upwards and he said, “Rather more than I frequent cafes.” They entered the park and crossed a bridge over the water in silence. It was only once they started around the boating lake that Mycroft said, “I owe you an apology, John.” The bag collided with John’s knee again, but Mycroft ignored the reaction and continued, “Several, perhaps, although I won’t apologise for the intent behind removing Moriarty.” They crunched along for several more steps; the gravel path must be hell on Mycroft’s expensive shoes. He cleared his throat and said almost stiffly, “I wanted to apologize for the night of the bonfire. I had all my resources deployed elsewhere, and I didn’t see it coming.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. He was about to make a joke, but it died in his throat when he got a look at the other man’s face. Mycroft looked sincere, even contrite. Gently, he said, “You can’t predict everything.”

Mycroft made a noise in his throat that sounded like a negation. Is that what he thought of himself, John wondered, that he was supposed to be omniscient? They continued to crunch along the path, scattering a group of ducks. At length, John said, “Sherlock doesn’t know who did it.” Mycroft continued to walk without turning to meet John’s eyes. It was a confirmation, but with his life at stake, he pressed, “Do you know who put me in a bonfire, Mycroft?”

“No.” He did turn to meet John’s eyes then. “No, I don’t. I’ve been through the security footage, but it’s minimal. There were two men who took you off the street into an unmarked van. You were taken west until you were outside our surveillance network. It was already dark when they returned and put you into the bonfire.”

“And the two men that drugged me on the street?”

“Not previously known to us. We have made efforts to track them, but they are no longer in the capital.”

This was bad, John knew, very bad. “Is there anyone who would want to target me? Could one of Moriarty’s..”

“No.” Mycroft cut him off, shaking his head as he said, “No, we were thorough. There’s nothing left of Moriarty’s network. The bonfire was someone else. Someone who hasn’t claimed credit yet.” It made him want a cigarette, although his brother would never let him hear the last of it if he found out.

They were approached by a young couple pushing a pram. John waited until they passed to say, “Is there anyone else? Anyone you’d suspect?”

“There are always a number of individuals we keep track of. And with my brother’s _celebrity_ there’s a certain fringe that are more interested, to be sure...” It would have been so easy to say something reassuring, but for John Watson he was prepared to make a painful admission. “In truth, John, I simply don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing.” They were the same words Sherlock had used; the brothers weren’t as dissimilar as they liked to believe.

They continued on in a sort of companionable silence until they exited the park and reached the main road. There was a car waiting for Mycroft at the kerb, how they’d tracked the walk John didn’t want to know. As they approached the vehicle Mycroft cleared his throat and awkwardly offered, “We will continue to make inquiries, and I will let you know what we determine.”

Impulsively, John reached out and shook Mycroft’s hand, “Thanks.” The other man’s grip was firm; the understanding between them that had been developing since Sherlock’s return was plain. 

The car engine roared to life and the moment was gone. They were about to part ways when one last thing seemed to occur to the purported civil servant. “Oh, and John.” Mycroft pointed his umbrella at the bag. “The cherries are his favourite, but he is also quite partial to raspberries.” He gave a small, but real, smile, “I doubt he’s mentioned it.”


End file.
